Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

33 & 1/3
 
This morning, I wrote LET IT GO on my hand
in thick black ink. I am 33, and I can’t
believe I still have do this. Driving to coffee,
the sky rips itself open, cries all over the place.
The cars slow and linger in it, headlights glow
and steam. When I finally arrive, the barista
sees the writing on my hand and says nothing.
But she gives me my change with two palms:
one reaching toward me from above, the other
holding me from below. I can’t write poems
about you. It is impossible. A friend said when
she writes, her husband is a large grizzly bear,
her children are five tiny hearts in five lanterns,
and she is the little girl hiding a mermaid, or
the wife of a dog trained to walk on his back legs,
or the boy who orders a woman’s heart for dinner
and gets it. You don’t always have to be so literal,
she says. That’s why it’s poetry. But I can’t help it.
I am always me. My hand is always my hand.
The black letters tell the story of my whole life
to anyone who wants to read it: LET IT GO.
This morning, the it was you.



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